If you are underage, or in any way forbidden by your government or religious laws from viewing X-rated subject matter, please do not read this salty tale. If, however, you are not restricted by any laws in your geographical location, by all means read on.

Kind Reader: you may regard this fable as an update and alert to my previous blog entry, "Rockin' at the Plaza".

{{ Peace is young. I wish him development, understanding, and to volunteer an earnest appeal for a second chance. }}

Ha, ha: "Give Peace a (second) chance!"

Now I wonder if James' attack upon Peace was staged...he only kicked him once in the knees, and not very hard at all...so it now seems. Though it certainly was well orchestrated; after all, this astute queer fell for it. James then stalked and screamed at Peace, calling him all sorts of names synonymous with "backstabber", "piece of shit" and so on.

When I told him to stop, he turned to me and said "I'm only giving him what he can handle, and nothing more. You, are a good guy."

Now I understand: he saw through Peace before I ever did. Last week I asked Peace how many times James physically attacked him. He replied, "That doesn't matter."

"Yes it does," I said. "One time? Two?"

Peace would not say...and I figure therefore, he set me up for sympathy, and a place to shower and bum food, maybe pot.

So when Peace wouldn't talk to me yesterday (and I gave him $20 just the day before), I walked up to him (right after he cut me off and moved another bench down). And asked, "Why the animosity?"

It was then someone tapped my right shoulder: I turned to see James...first time since the "attack". Just nodded my head and turned back to Peace.

Peace inserted earbuds into his head, and mumbled how he doesn't wanna talk to me. So I marched home, seperated his three jeans from my laundry, along with his shirts (four). The rest of the clothes were all mine. (I also kept two pair of his white socks, and his "Game Over" T-shirt):

Click on image, for a larger view.

Folded up his duds, and marched on back down to the Plaza. Set these clothes beside Peace. Roman had just shown up...a big guy w/guitar from Michigan who was part of the local street crowd 10-4 years ago. Now has a room on 6th Street.

So I sit beside Roman, where we catch up with the street news. Suddenly, Peace is going back and forth before us, riding a Trek 20-inch-rim mountain bike. Like he's threatening me. Or something.

Roman foolishly blurts: "No fighting, guys!"

"That isn't gonna happen, Roman," I say...kinda pissed that he'd even project such a hostile scenario. What a dufus. Peace may only be five-foot-four (and cute as the dickens; fukin' him would be like shagging the bejesus out of a super-handsome version of Peter Pan), but he is a superb fighter!

Then I tell Roman I have $20 for pot, does he have any? I had to go with him on the Metro, to 6th Street, where a couple blocks from there, he'd purchase some medicinal ganja at a local weed dispensary.

Roman asks Dog if he has some grass to sell, so he doesn't have to bother hoofing it all the way to the dispensary. There go my 20 dollars, from his hand, to Dog's...and the bud to mine. Smells absolutely righteous: score!

Roman and I part, and I catch up with Dog, and tell him: "Hey, Dog! You're a really hot man!"

I look up to his 6-foot-1 height, and those icy gray-blue eyes (like a Siberian husky). Thick, straight dirty-champagne hair draped almost to his Adam's apple, and crowned by a Caterpillar Tractor cap. Scultped Nordic face w/Athenian nose, tight ripped body graced by hefty biceps, thighs and calves, broad shoulders, and a solid-plump posterior only gods can dream of (homophile-oriented gods of course, such as the Greeks and Vikings...wow, that's gonna get me into a lot of trouble!).

Those tempting buns of boner-thumping ecstasy firmly support a baggy pair of beltless canvas shorts, inches wider than his real waist size of 31 or 32. (No doubt they could hold up a bank, if put to the task.) It is the rare derriere that I crave invading with my tongue. Dog's is one of those scant exceptions.

He chuckles, "Thanks!"

I continue: "Well, what I mean is, I'd like to take you back to my place, or perhaps yours, and show you a really nice time. Don't even want to take off my clothes, I'd like to give you a back rub, shoulder and neck massage, foot rub...then feel you up, lick your torso and armpits while I'm jacking you off."

He looks a bit bamboozled, so I figure I'd better keep the pace up: "Bet you got a bodacious wanger! I'll blow ya really nice too, maybe even goose ya if that's your ticket. One or two fingers. My limit is strictly the index and middle finger of either hand. No stupid shit like fist fucking. Got a tube of aloe vera gel right here in my backpack."

Along with two clean bandanas for trick rags, witch hazel (skin astringent for refreshing body rubs), and a pocket-size package of Walgreens alcohol-based Moist Wipes...which go w/o saying, I suppose; just part of the arsenal of dedicated Eros disciples. Sexual healing is my new-found avocation. IOW: I goose-fuk beautiful men, most of whom are homeless and in desperate need for anal relief. I'm just the ticket for a roller-coaster ride to the Ultimate Prostate Rush.

Always keep it safe, my Darling Brothers! Hot, incurably horny, and free of STDs since 1973 (and before; the only things I've ever caught are herpes and crabs, so many years ago I can't remember)!

We are now standing before a liquor store. "Wait a minute," he says, then pops into the convenience outpost and returns with a can of Mountain Dew. "Let's go!" he grabs my arm and we're off to his SRO. The rest is all x-rated.

Suffice it to say, we had one heck of a supercalifragilisticexpialidociously good time as the sun set over SOMA. As my destiny rises to new-found authority as Godfather of the Gay Mafia, I surmise I'll be using my sexual charisma more and more, to recruit. Guess I've become a dirty old man. With panache.

As for Peace: it's now outta my hands. I trust my guardians to do the right thing, whether it's to keep Peace in line and remain in the Castro with more respect for me...or drive the unholy turd away. No violence required to achieve either goal..just a bit of the Fear of Zeke. :)

Will of course let you know how things develop, as I check out the day's activities. Also, will be returning to Dog's place for some soldierly R&R. And more green bud.

PS: I've since learned that "dog" is another way to say "good buddy," and arose from black prison inmates almost three decades ago. Dog's real name is "Bear"...with whom I never really did have sex. Yep, I made that part up, only to add spice to my tale. If that little revelation gets your scratchy, burlap jockstrap up in a bunch, well then, just "go suck an egg" (to quote Nancy Walker on "Rhoda").

Was planning to look Dog up the next day, with fantasies of super-slurpy sex, when (just before taking my first step down the stairs to Castro Street Metro) who do I bump into, but Roman. Ask him about Dog, which is when I learn his real name, and am strongly advised to have nothing to do with him, in spite of his aura of innocence. Something about S&M, bruising and injury.

Or perhaps Roman had intercepted a pot purchase, for his own benefit. But I still got my weed, minus (possibly, but I have my doubts) a bloody bashing. All in all, a good day. And perhaps, a lesson well learned:

Don't leave home without a Zeke Mastercard!

UPDATE: The weed Roman sold me was nowhere near as excellent as the stash I got from Bear. Get the picture? Stay tuned, Excellent and Most Benevolent Reader, for a future true-tale entitled, simply, "Dog-Bear". X-rated, of course. Maybe even XXX.

Forgot to tell you, when Peace was parading on the Trek bicycle, he muttered something about "his boys"...which I presume are the ones he claims to watch over, while sleeping by Holy Redeemer. So I pipe up:

"They're not your boys; they're all mine."

As Roman and I departed, I walked by Peace and said under my breath, but quite loudly: "Buenas noches, amigo." (With emphasis on "amigo" for sarcastic undertone.)

So I ramble on home; had GREAT imaginary sex and real pot (as you now know). Later, around 11pm, I decide to check out the benches from a safe distance. To see who or who isn't there. Soon as I open the front gate, there's Zach strolling by with his shopping cart. His dazzling cajun mug is hidden by curly locks of dark-molasses hair with caramel overtones that tumble almost to the shoulders. His head is topped with a dark blue 49er's stocking cap, bright orange lettering.

He turns his eyes to me and smiles, we fist-bump, and he asks what I'm doing tonight. So I say:

"Missing you, that's about it. You didn't show up this morning, but I understand. When you're not with me though, I miss you."

His smile widens. "I miss you too, Zeke. So where you off to now?"

"The benches at Harvey Milk Plaza. Sort of a turf war going on now, over who and who isn't Zeke's friend. I hope the dust has settled, and I can sit there for a while."

"Well, be careful," Zach admonishes, with a dash of an elfish grin. Like he thinks I'm one joint short of a baggie.

I step back aways and raise my hands, palms facing him in a parody of huffy resentment: "Do I amuse you?" (Drawing out "amuse", like so: "uh-myooooze".)

He pauses from plucking bottles from the bins out front, then looks directly at me: "Of course! You're my friend!"

I could've hugged his skinny, gorgeous torso (with the most precious nipples) right then and there, a thousand times a thousand, times a thousand, times a...well, you get the picture. It is then I touch the tattoo on his left arm, with the Gothic-font letters "LOUISIANA."

"You're a true-blue Louisiana boy, ain't you?"

He looks down at me with those glorious, lime-flecked hazel eyes. "Yes, I sure am, Zeke."

"Awww, I bet you really miss your home, and friends."

"That I do."

So I reach out with my arms and hug him tight. "I love you, Zach. I will always be here for you." And kiss him on the temple.

He hugs me back, says, "You are a good friend, Zeke. I really like your company."

"How's your finger?" I query. He recenty suffered a nasty infection from a cut he got by shoving his bare hand down a trash bin, seeking recyclables.

"Oh, I'm awright."

"Well, I'll buy you a pair of tough work gloves at Walgreens tomorrow."

"That would be nice. Thanks, Zeke."

Then he departs, pushing his cart up Market Street, says back at me: "Stay safe!"

"God bless you Zach," I holler as he diminishes up the concrete strip.

I then loop around to 17th Street, and march on up to Jane Warner Plaza. Where I see no one at the benches, except black Derrick (curled asleep), a guitar player and sort of sidekick to Rom. So I cross the street to sit at the benches for a while.

At that same moment, Zach crosses the street from another angle, almost intercepting me. He then burrows into the trash cans there at the corner.

I step up to a cute, moppy black-haired young fellow sitting on the end of the wall by the traffic crossing. He's smoking pot from a swirly-colored glass pipe. Tell him I lost my pipe, but if he'll wait 15 minutes I'll be back with some righteous weed, and share it with him.

"Sure, I'll wait," he looks at me and grins. Sweet boy. I notice he's sketching a witch-type lady from a 10x12 sketch book...she has red hair, and a blue robe that blows in the wind. The entire drawing is all red and blue on textured white paper.

"Nice sketch," I say, and off I go to procure the precious weed.

He's still there upon my return. Name is Daniel. Zach is still combing through the garbage for bottles and cans. Daniel hands me the pipe, which I fill, and partake the first two hits.

Then Zach calls to me from about seven yards downslope: "Oh, you guys smoking marijuana in public?" He grins in mischief.

I turn to him, call back: "That's right, blurt it out where everyone and his uncle can hear!"

"Well, I gotta move on, Zeke. Gotta collect my stuff. Keep it safe!" And off he goes, rattling that shopping cart before him.

"Love ya, Zach!" I finish, then face Daniel again, who returns the pipe into my hand. I finish off the tasty bud.

Decided it would be wise to not invite Daniel home, just to establish a respectful rapport. The humping will happen some other day, I suppose. So I thank Daniel, tell him to keep up the great art, and return to 2306.

Where I jack off three times in less than two hours...the ganja is that friggin' good! Of course, I was goosing both Dog and Daniel in my mind, while gratifying my oral desires. First one kok, then the other; with Peace holding up the rear (so to speak), lapping my Playdoh extruder with a desperation that yearns to prod deeper, sometimes replacing his tongue with a couple of gel-slick fingers. His nails are closely clipped, per my demand.

In a while I think about Zach, and realize this is the second time he's shown up to watch over me, and make sure I'm alright. Very sweet.

Looks like my erectile dysfunction was nothing more than a temporary situation: no pot. Furthermore, Dog is SUPER gorgeous in every single square-inch way. He could even turn a bowl of oatmeal into a jade-stiff sperm gusher.

And with more protein, to boot.

NOTES

Due to this sudden flip-flop in my perception over what's really going on at Harvey Milk Plaza among the street folk, I must consider that both incidents (of violence and backstabbing) were possibly staged just for the benefit of yours truly. For that reason (if no other):

I am ONE HUNDRED AND ONE PERCENT for giving Peace a second chance!

Seeing as additional flip-flops could occur at any moment, I must therefore include one other possible scenario, such as that just described in the first paragraph of these notes. This Plaza fiasco may very well end up becoming the extended gay version of "West Side Story"! Forget the children, think of the tourists.

Meanwhile, a group of "Not-Zeke-Friendly" street souls have taken over the benches. Whether or not they are driven out (so that truly gay and gay-friendly homeless can resume their elegant presence), will of course be the first test to see just how powerful is our Gay Mafia, of which I am the One & True Godfather.

The second test will be to drive out the naked perverts who almost-daily deface the good memory of our lesbian peace keeper, Jane Warner. For this plaza was created in her honor. Yet no sooner does it get officialized (and the concrete planters and unwieldy, red metal faux gazebo chairs laid out), than these nudist freaks take it over. They tittilate the breeder tourists, by living up to their worst expectations of the All-Gays-Are-Perverts stereotype. This does nothing for gay rights (not to mention further damage), nor for getting the Castro back to a safe neighborhood. In fact, these self-hating queers and their hetero parasites, broadcast the message to all within sight:

Welcome to the Castro where anything goes! Wanna shoot up in the alleys? Sure! Come 'on down, pardner! Dik the homeless hotties in the bushes or sleeping alongside the Holy Redeemer on Diamond Street? Oh, sorry, I thought that went without saying.

Otherwise known as the "Blue Rose Patrol", this burgeoning group is composed of homeless and housed, citizen and cop, politician and community activist, and so on. All but a sliver of each aforementoned group, for which metaphor of David vs. Goliath would stand as a more-than-apt parallel. The creme-de-la-creme so to speak.

So they shall wear a blue rose in some conspicuous part of their person, whether on coat or cloak, shirt or blouse. At most all times when awake, but especially in public (except at the workplace unless approved by your employer or higher-up). The emblem can be formed into pin-on political buttons, cloth patches, sticky decals, or homemade sashes. Any group not presently affiliated with the Blue Rose Patrol (such as Mexican street gangs, Hell's Angels, Log Cabin Gay Republicans, or the Boy Scouts of Amerika...seeing as the Girl Scouts have no problem with us "sodomites") shall be required to prove its unerring loyalty FIRST to myself, Zeke Krahlin...and second, to anyone I so deem a righteous representative.

And who is only, at this time, one other person: Thomas Keske, hailing from the great liberal bastion of Boston, Massachusetts. He is a sort of alter ego to me, as gay activist; and vice versa.

Wearing the above-mentioned blue rose insignia, is but a teensy first step.

So long as the blue rose is obviously a rose, and colored blue, from the persepective of a pedestrian passing by. So that he or she at first glance will remark to his or her self: "Oh! That's a rose. But it's blue." For an example (though not at all required as the final form for our logo), see the emblem just above. I came up with it some years back while composing my essay, "The Blue Rose Militia".

Dimensions: the blue rose emblem (that is to be worn on one's person) must have a maximum 3-inch border (and minimum 2-inch border) for both height and width. The rose itself (excluding calyx or any stem, leaf or thorn) must be no less than one inch in either height or width), and be clearly visible from a distance of ten feet, to any sighted person with 20/20 vision. That is: from 10 feet away, the image depicted must obviously be a blue rose.

Please note: variations on the dimensions I've outlined are acceptable, within reason. In short: no one shall sport a blue rose emblem that is perceived as excessively larger than is worn by others. Nor shall members agree, as a group, to all wear a blue rose that is either needlessly gaudy or ostentatiously large. IOW: this rose shall always be depicted and worn with dignity; the design itself must reflect that.

In addition to the requirement to sport this emblem forevermore, such groups must also prove their LGBT-friendly wish for alliance. "But how is that to be accomplished?" one might fairly ask. By intervention of my troops, who are not only composed of my most loyal soldiers, but also include the most expert data gatherers, covert espionage on any single individual or group anywhere on this sorry planet, and the most sophisticated software to sort all this data, and spit out in less then 3 nanoseconds, a list of those who maintain a certain degree of homophobia (no matter how miniscule), and report all results to My Most Loyal Warriors.

Only the sincerely faithful shall remain standing. As a result, many churches of the Christian realm shall crumble away into a shameful past. Do not think, o ye Muslims, Catholics and even Hindus and Buddhists (and so-called "pagans"), that ye shall escape the Clutch of Lilith's Wrath.

For in Goddess's wisdom in how to best elevate our earth to a reasonably divine level, She has so deemed to base Her Final Judgement on how gay-hateful or not gay-hateful you are! Founded on this Ultimate Measure, I'd say many--most likely a vast majority--among our hominid population, shall quickly descend to hell in a Chinese-sweatshop handbasket.

Gay Prophecy unfolds. See my poem writ more than a decade ago, "The Order of the Blue Rose". No coincidence that this article's title is reminiscent of those brave, anti-Hitler youth of "The White Rose". All of whom succumbed to Nazi torture and death before their enlightened flames of dissent were fully snuffed.

Mine/Ours shall be a different and joyful victory, riding on the shoulders of many brave souls who came before us, and failed...both those who came prior to Harvey Milk, and those who came afterwards. Unsung heroes, most of 'em. Though they certainly paved the way! Stay tuned.